THE SLEEPING CLUB- Seeds of Panic

In the waning hours of daylight, as I looked out through the jagged mouth of the cave toward the darkening woods, I attempted to suppress my growing concern for the members of our party who had not yet returned from their walk. I had been able to put it out of my mind while I was unpacking and setting up my cot and mosquito netting, but with nothing left to occupy my mind, and with night rapidly descending, I found myself nervously scanning the tree line for any sign of them.

I tried to sound nonchalant as I asked, "What time did they leave?"

"It was a few hours ago at least," answered Annette.

"I think it was around six," chimed in Steve.

The sun slipped irretrievably over the western lip casting its last feeble light against the cliff face above the cave, and the backlit woods blurred into a black and formless mass. "Menacing," I thought. "Hostile."

The stories of this place, which I had sought out so eagerly and catalogued in my brain, now fell like seeds onto the fertile soil of my worried mind. They were threatening to bloom into the weed of paranoia, which chokes out reason, makes you perceive things that aren't truly there, and which ultimately finds fruition in panic. The overwhelming terror, which was steadily growing in my fevered imaginings, was even then poking through, sprouting into consciousness, and eroding my capacity for self-help. The sun had not yet fully set, the events of that night had yet to unfurl, and I was staring with naked terror into the Demon Woods...on the verge of panic.